First Blood
Two days. Hermione had been unconscious only for two days, according to Madam Pomfrey. Magical healing was truly a blessing, Hermione thought, although she supposed it was balanced out by all the magical threats. In the Muggle world, she would have never been pummelled to the brink of death by a troll, after all.
“Miss Granger!” came the warm voice of the wizened Headmaster Dumbledore as he swept past the white privacy curtains around her bed, his long beard and vivid violet robes fluttering. “Madam Pomfrey has just informed me of your recovery.”
Hermione managed a polite smile, though inside she felt strangely hollow. Dumbledore’s brilliant blue eyes lost a bit of their usual twinkle as he grew serious, his half-moon spectacles sliding down his crooked nose as he gave Hermione a serious look. “What happened on Halloween was a grave incident. We are investigating every possible lead and I assure you, we will find those responsible as soon as we can.”
‘As soon as we can’ should have been before the troll almost killed her, in Hermione’s view, but she supposed the effort was better late than never. Despite her bitter thoughts, Hermione kept her tone neutral as she spoke:
“Thank you, sir. Do you know when I might be allowed to leave? I’ve woken up rather recently, but I feel perfectly fine, really.”
Dumbledore stroked his long, silver beard thoughtfully with slender, wrinkled fingers. “Ah, well, Poppy is not one to be lenient when it comes to her patients’ well-being,” he said with a soft chuckle, his crow’s feet and smile lines deepening. “But with a bit of convincing, she’s agreed to let you go early. Just in time for lunch, I believe!”
The Headmaster’s words finally drew a real smile from the bushy-haired girl, but it quickly faltered. “How—how did this h-happen, sir?” she asked, her voice small. “I was—I thought—when Professor McGonagall came to inform my family…she never told us that death was one of this school’s primary dangers.”
Dumbledore’s expression grew solemn, a stark contrast to his dazzling, vibrantly coloured robes. “This is an entirely unprecedented event, Miss Granger. If I had known that, under my watch, one of a young pupil’s first tastes of magic would be such a horrific ordeal…” He shook his head, his long, silvery beard swaying as he did so. “I apologize for the role I played in allowing this to happen.”
For a long while, Hermione stared at him; she felt in a daze, almost. But then, with a sudden force: “That doesn’t really answer the question, does it?” Hermione tilted her head. “I didn’t ask for—for apologies, sir. I want answers! How did a mountaintroll attack me in the loo?” By the end, her pitch had heightened to quite shrill notes.
“The exact details elude the Hogwarts staff at this moment; but believe me when I say this—we want answers just as much as you do, Miss Granger.”
Hermione didn’t believe him—not at all.
“Promise me,” she said, wringing her trembling hands, “you’ll tell me who did it, when you get the answers.”
“Of course,” said Professor Dumbledore, bowing his head, upon which his pointy purple Wizard’s Hat seemed to be on the verge of falling off of.
“And…” Hermione shifted in the white bed of the Hospital Wing, looking deep into the headmaster’s vivid blue eyes. “...how did I survive, sir? Logically, I shouldn’t’ve, yes? The troll had mangled my legs and had struck me once more with its club by the point I fell unconscious, —I assume the professors stepped in eventually, but how soon did they come?”
Professor Dumbledore appeared distinctly uncomfortable by that question; his thin lips pursed, and his eyes closed momentarily. “When wizards are young,” he began slowly, “their magic is more…wild, for lack of a better word. The purpose of Hogwarts—and all other formative magical institutions—is to tame these untrained sorcerers’ magic through both enhancing their understanding of the principles underlying the art, and intensive practice in wielding the magic itself. Without this training, wizards’ magic is reliant solely on their mental states, resulting in manifestations of what we term ‘accidental magic’. It seemed that, as the troll attacked you, your magic fortified you to some extent.”
Suddenly, a sight she had never witnessed flashed past Hermione’s eyes; she could see it so clearly—the large mountain troll pummelling her bloody heap of a body. Bile rose within her throat, but Hermione swallowed it down.
“I suppose I should be glad,” she said, now studying her hands quite intently; had they gotten every detail correctly when the professors found her, and flicked their magic wands, forcing her broken skin to stitch itself all back together again? “If the troll’s first strike had struck true…I wonder whether I would’ve had time to even feel the arbitrary amount of fear necessary for my magic to do anything.”
Silence reigned for a short while; but Hermione broke it once more. “Do…do my parents know about all of this, then?”
“No, they do not,” he said quietly. “Under magical law, Muggles are not considered full guardians for magical children. They do retain certain rights, of course—they manage your Gringotts account, sign particular documents—but, regrettably, they are not treated as equals to magical guardians in matters like this. I could certainly send a letter to them directly, but I thought it best for you to reach out yourself.”
This was simply a flimsy excuse, Hermione knew. The Headmaster was clearly hiding behind those archaic laws to justify not informing her parents, treating them as if they were little more than distant relatives! It was infuriating. Her parents had every right to know when their daughter was injured, and yet Dumbledore had chosen to keep them in the dark.
Hermione was on the verge of protesting, ready to voice her frustration, but then she stopped herself. As wrong as it was, this worked in her favour. She loved magic more than anything—more than she’d ever admit to anyone. Her parents wouldn’t understand; they’d be horrified to know their little girl had nearly been killed by a mountain troll. They’d pull her out of Hogwarts without hesitation.
No—they couldn’t ever know.
“Thank you, sir!” Hermione chirped, forcing a bright smile onto her face. “I appreciate the consideration. But I really must be off. I haven’t written to them in days, and I’m sure they’re worried sick.”
Before Hermione could make her exit, Headmaster Dumbledore held up a hand to stop her. “Ah, one moment, Miss Granger. It seems you have one last visitor—one of your Housemates.” He paused, looking at her earnestly. “Would you like to invite Miss Davis in?”
Hermione blinked in stupefaction. Then, she warily began to nod.
Dumbledore, after calling for Miss Davis to enter, stepped aside, allowing the small girl to slip past him. He looked back at Hermione for a moment, in farewell, with an apologetic gaze, before leaving.
Tracey Davis walked in, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Tracey wasn’t exactly a friend—the opposite, if anything. Tracey hovered near the foot of the bed, clearly feeling out of place.
“Hey, Granger,” Tracey began awkwardly, playing with the hem of her sleeve. “So... heard you had a close call. Nasty business with that troll, huh?”
Hermione gave a noncommittal nod, watching her with wary curiosity. Tracey’s usual bravado seemed to have been left at the door, replaced by an almost sheepish demeanour.
“Right,” Tracey continued, clearing her throat. “Well, the whole school's been talking about it, obviously. But, er, which team d’you think will win the upcoming Quidditch match—Gryffindor or Slytherin? I feel like, as a team, us Slytherins are a bit better, if only because we’re much more willing to commit tactical offences, you know? But there is the new Gryffindor Seeker—some say he’s the youngest one in a century, but I think that’s just Potter trying to make himself look good. I mean, he beat the Dark Lord as an infant already—how likely is it that he also just happens to be that talented at Quidditch, too? But he is really short, so that’s a fair tradeoff, now that I really think about it…”
Hermione furrowed her brows, wondering where on earth this was going. “Why are you here, Davis?” she interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended.
Tracey shifted on her feet, avoiding Hermione’s gaze. “Look, you almost died, alright? And... I guess I didn’t want to be that person, you know? The one who bullies the girl who was nearly killed by a troll. Bad karma or something.” She let out a half-hearted laugh, as if expecting Hermione to join in.
But Hermione just stared at her, unamused. Tracey's smile faded, replaced by an uncomfortable grimace.
“Okay, fine. I just... I don’t know, Granger. I figured I should at least make an effort. It’s not like we’re friends or anything, but I didn’t want to be... well, you know.” She shrugged, her awkwardness turning into something almost sincere.
As Tracey turned to leave, she paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle. “Oh, and Granger?” she said, glancing back. “Don’t get too mad if the other Slytherins start cracking jokes about it, yeah? They’re just—well, you know how they are.”
Hermione just nodded stiffly, not trusting herself to speak. Tracey gave a half-hearted wave and slipped out, leaving Hermione alone in the suddenly too-quiet room.
For a moment, Hermione simply stood there, digesting the strange interaction. Tracey’s visit had been far from comforting, but it was the closest thing to an apology she’d ever gotten from any Slytherin.
Then, brushing off her robes, she finally left the Hospital Wing.
The cool air of the Owlery whipped around Hermione as she hurriedly pulled out a roll of parchment, her hands shaking slightly as she began to compose her letter. She didn’t like lying—not really. It felt wrong, like a stain on her otherwise meticulous record. But this was necessary. Her parents had already sent two letters inquiring why she hadn't responded in days. They worried, as any good parents would, especially about a daughter who was so far away, isolated in a world they barely understood.
What could she possibly tell them? That she was unconscious in the Hospital Wing after being nearly killed by a mountain troll? That the closest thing she had to friends turned out to be two boys who thought she was nothing more than an insufferable know-it-all? No, that would only lead to more questions, more concern—and, worst of all, a chance they might decide to pluck her out of the Wizarding World in its entirety. Hermione desperately wanted to leave Hogwarts—but not like that.
She knew what she had to do. Hermione bit her lip, the decision forming in her mind like a puzzle falling into place. She needed to lie, to fabricate a story about making friends; that’d be the only justification for her uncharacteristic silence—they didn’t know how Hermione would act when she had friends, since she’d never really had any. Not only that, but friends who could vouch for her if her parents ever asked if they ever met—at King’s Cross Station, at Diagon Alley, anywhere. The lie had to be convincing, grounded in reality, but with just enough fiction to cover the truth.
Hermione's quill hovered over the parchment as she considered her options. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were out of the question. She couldn’t stand them, and the feeling was mutual. But Neville Longbottom… No, he was too honest, too genuine to play along with any deception; to boot, he didn’t have any real obligation to her, at least not enough to go out of his way in such a manner. That left Tracey Davis, a Slytherin who had visited her in the Hospital Wing, albeit awkwardly, and with a blend of pity and contrition. Tracey was a Slytherin through and through, but Hermione had to admit: clever and adaptable. If Hermione asked for a favor, Tracey would probably agree, if only to assuage her own guilt.
With her mind made up, Hermione dipped her quill in ink and began to write.
The cool air of the Owlery whipped around Hermione as she hurriedly pulled out a roll of parchment, her hands shaking slightly as she began to compose her letter. She didn’t like lying—not really. It felt wrong, like a stain on her otherwise meticulous record. But this was necessary. Her parents had already sent two letters inquiring why she hadn't responded in days. They worried, as any good parents would, especially about a daughter who was so far away, isolated in a world they barely understood.
What could she possibly tell them? That she was unconscious in the Hospital Wing after being nearly killed by a mountain troll? That the closest thing she had to friends turned out to be two boys who thought she was nothing more than an insufferable know-it-all? No, that would only lead to more questions, more concern—and, worst of all, a chance they might decide to pull her out of Hogwarts entirely.
She knew what she had to do. Hermione bit her lip, the decision forming in her mind like a puzzle falling into place. She needed to lie, to fabricate a story about making friends. Friends who could vouch for her if her parents ever asked. The lie had to be convincing, grounded in reality, but with just enough fiction to cover the truth.
Hermione's quill hovered over the parchment as she considered her options. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were out of the question. She couldn’t stand them, and the feeling was mutual. But Neville Longbottom… No, he was too honest, too genuine to play along with any deception. That left Tracey Davis, a Slytherin who had visited her in the Hospital Wing, albeit awkwardly, and with a mix of pity and guilt. Tracey was a Slytherin through and through, but Hermione had to admit, she was clever and adaptable. If Hermione asked for a favour, Tracey would probably agree, if only to keep up appearances.
With her mind made up, Hermione dipped her quill in ink and began to write:
Dear Mum and Dad,
I'm so sorry for not writing sooner! Classes have been absolutely hectic, and time has flown by faster than I ever expected. But I have the most exciting news to share: I've made a friend! Her name is Tracey Davis, and she's in Slytherin House with me. I know, I know—you were worried about me fitting in, but it turns out that Tracey and I have so much in common.
The other day, she was struggling with our Transfiguration assignment—you remember how I told you we were turning parchment into quills? She was really upset about not getting it right, and I happened to be in the bathroom when she came in. I showed her how to adjust her wand movements and explained the theory behind the spell. It was so much fun teaching her! And you won't believe it, but she managed to master it by the end of the evening!
We stayed up talking and lost track of time, and—well, don't be too mad—we ended up sneaking back to our common room after curfew. I know we shouldn't have broken the rules, but it was worth it, I think. I finally feel like I'm starting to fit in here.
Hogwarts is truly amazing, and I’m learning so much. I miss you both dearly, but please don’t worry about me. I promise I’m taking care of myself, and I’ll write again soon—I promise!
All my love,
Hermione
Hermione read over the letter, satisfied with the blend of truth and fiction. She had been honest about the schoolwork and her enthusiasm for learning but had spun a tale of camaraderie that her parents would be thrilled to hear. She even threw in the bit about rule-breaking, knowing it would distract them with mild disapproval rather than outright panic.
“God,” muttered Hermione, slowly shaking her head, “I really am too good at this.”
Tying the letter securely to the leg of a school owl, Hermione whispered, “Take this to my parents, please.” The tawny owl gave a soft hoot and took off into the sky.
Without wasting another moment, she sprinted toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Hermione knew she was already behind, having missed both Transfiguration and Herbology, but she refused to let herself miss this class as well.
When she arrived, Hermione paused outside the door, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself and smooth down her robes. Once she felt somewhat presentable, she pushed open the door and strode inside, head held high. The other students were already seated, and Professor Quirrell was mid-lecture, his voice a nervous stutter as he explained the finer points of the Knockback Jinx.
Hermione quickly took her usual spot at the front, pulling out her quill and parchment to catch up on notes. After an hour of rapid scribbling, Quirrell finally set them to practise the jinx in pairs. Fate, it seemed, had decided to test her patience, for her partner was none other than Pansy Parkinson.
"Flipendo!" Parkinson shrieked for what had to be the tenth time. Her wand movements were sharp, her pronunciation flawless, yet the spell fizzled every time.
Hermione clenched her jaw, trying to focus on her own practice, but finally, she couldn’t hold back: "Did you even listen to the lecture?" she snapped. "You’re doing everything right, but if you don’t understand the spell’s theory, more attempts won’t help you!"
Pansy turned on her with a glare, her tone as sharp as a knife. "Why would I care what a Mudblood like you has to say? Did you use the Knockback Jinx when the troll was smashing you to bits?"
The words struck like a physical blow, igniting a fury in Hermione she didn’t even know she had. How could someone even be cruel enough to say that? Hermione had always known Pansy wasn’t the nicest of girls, but surely mocking her near-death was a bit beyond the pale, even for her. Hermione’s fingers tightened around her wand. "Flipendo!" she roared, all her rage channelled into the spell.
The Knockback Jinx was supposed to be a safe, simple spell, one that sent a target stumbling back a few feet. But this time, once the bright blue jet of light impacted, Pansy flew across the room with the force of a Bludger, nearly slamming into the opposite wall. Hermione's breath hitched, her heart in her throat, as she waited for the inevitable crash. But just before impact, Pansy’s momentum halted.
Professor Quirrell had his wand raised, face pale, as he levitated Pansy gently to the ground. “C-class dismissed!” he stammered. “E-except for you, M-miss Granger. I’d l-like to speak privately.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted with dread as the other students filed out, the Slytherins snickering and whispering among themselves. She couldn’t bring herself to meet their eyes. Instead, she focused on the floor, forcing herself to stay calm as she approached Quirrell’s desk
The professor conjured a chair opposite him with a flick of his wand, gesturing for her to sit.
"Please, sit," he said, his voice still carrying that nervous stutter, though now there was something sharper lurking beneath it.
Hermione hesitated before lowering herself into the chair, her hands gripping her robes tightly. The room seemed to close in on her, the only sound the faint crackling of the torchlight.
“W-what was that little stunt, M-miss Granger?” Professor Quirrell asked, leaning forward, his pale eyes boring into hers.
Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I’m so sorry, Professor!” she stammered, wringing her hands. “I—I don’t know what came over me. Pansy was… was taunting me about the troll, and I just… lost control.”
Quirrell's eyes narrowed slightly, his usual nervousness momentarily giving way to something shrewder. “S-so you just happened t-to lash out? A-and by chance sent Miss Parkinson flying across the room?”
“Yes!” Hermione insisted, her voice rising in panic. “I swear, it wasn’t intentional! I was just—she was so cruel, and I... I didn’t mean to do it!”
Quirrell nodded slowly, as if considering her words, but he didn’t look convinced. “Y-you know, M-miss Granger, i-it’s curious that you were targeted by th-that troll in the f-f-first place. Very curious.”
Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose I don’t have the best luck, sir,” she responded quietly.
For a moment, the professor simply watched her, his fingers drumming idly on the desk. “T-tell me, M-miss Granger,” he began slowly, his stammer more pronounced, “d-do you t-truly believe your encounter w-with the troll was just an accident?”
The question hung in the air like a sinister fog. Hermione blinked, trying to process his words. “W-What are you saying?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you… are you implying someone…?”
“P-precisely,” Quirrell cut in, his eyes gleaming with something that made Hermione’s skin crawl. “I-it’s quite the coincidence, wouldn’t you say? A troll loose in the castle, a-and you, of all people, just happen to be the one cornered by it? A-a Muggleborn, alone, isolated…”
Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat. The very idea that someone had set the troll on her made her feel as if the ground had been pulled from beneath her feet. She had been terrified that night, truly believing she was about to die. And now, to think it might have been orchestrated…
“B-but why?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why would anyone want to—”
“P-perhaps to scare you, perhaps to send a message,” Quirrell interrupted, his voice now oddly calm, almost conversational. “It’s no secret you’re the brightest of your year, M-miss Granger. Y-you’re a target. And y-you’ll continue to be one… unless you take steps to protect yourself.”
Hermione’s stomach churned, a sickening mix of fear and fury bubbling up inside her. “You—you think they’ll try again, don’t you?” she asked, her voice barely steady.
“Indeed,” Quirrell replied, nodding slowly. “A-as long as they believe y-you’re weak, they will k-keep coming. Y-you need to show them otherwise. M-make them think twice before crossing you.”
The implication of his words was like a slap to the face. Hermione stared at him, horrified. “You’re suggesting I… retaliate?” she asked, her voice cracking with disbelief. “Against my own Housemates?”
Quirrell’s lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. “I w-was bullied too, you know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his voice taking on a confessional tone. “Back in Ravenclaw. The smart ones are often targets, especially those who d-don’t fit in. I-I tried reasoning with them, appealing to their better nature… it d-didn’t work. It wasn’t until I stood up for myself, until I d-defeated one of my tormentors in a duel, that they finally left me alone.”
Hermione felt a wave of revulsion wash over her. The idea of duelling her housemates, of sinking to their level—it went against everything she believed in. “But that’s… that’s barbaric!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with indignation. “I can’t just—just fight them like some… some common thug!” Hermione pursed her lips, then, calming as she thought. “And,” she added slowly, “I’m not even going to stick around here much longer. I’ve already been meaning to transfer for quite a while—after Christmas Break, I’ll never have to see any more Slytherins again, that I can tell you.”
Professor Quirrell’s thin, blond eyebrows furrowed together, and he pressed his lips together, slowly nodding. “T-truly? You will give your Housemates th-their wish, with n-n-no r-resistance?” He fixed Hermione with a deep stare. “A-and w-what of th-the next?”
“The next?” echoed Hermione, tilting her head in confusion.
“The next M-Mu-Muggle-born Slytherin, of course,” he said, shaking his head. “Th-they’ll be c-cursed with s-same fate as you.” He paused, a spasm of hope flitting across his sombre countenance. “Unless…”
Hermione’s stomach twisted at his words, her resolve wavering. She clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white as she tried to keep her composure. “That’s… that’s not my problem,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I never asked to be some crusader for Muggle-borns. I didn’t even know what a Muggle-born was a few months ago, for goodness’ sake! I just want to get out of here, away from all of this.”
Professor Quirrell’s expression shifted, a flicker of something like disappointment crossing his pale face. “I see,” he said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “I had thought…” he sighed, trailing off. “Forget it.”
Hermione flinched at that, her heart pounding with a mix of guilt and anger. “You don’t understand!” she burst out, her voice rising. “You don’t know what it’s like to be hated for something you can’t control. To be... to be hunted by your own housemates, all because of your blood!” She was shaking now, her breaths coming in short gasps. “I don’t want to fight them, I don’t want to become like them—I just want to be happy and—and safe!”
For a moment, there was silence between them, thick and suffocating. Quirrell studied her, his eyes narrowing as if weighing her soul. “Y-you think you can r-run away from this?” he asked, his voice soft but laden with something darker. “Leave, if you must. But know this: you will n-never escape what you are. If not here, then s-somewhere else. Prejudice is a… relentless enemy, Miss Granger. You can hide, but it will find you.” He paused, frowning. “And, if anything, I’d say Magical Britain is one of the most welcoming nations in the Wizarding World. If you think here’s bad, the continent—assuming you’re transferring to Beauxbatons, yes?—is the last place you should flee to, I’d say.”
Hermione bit her lip, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to accept that there might be some truth in his words. She had always believed in the goodness of people, in justice, in reason. But here, at Hogwarts, surrounded by sneers and whispers, she had found none of that.
“And what am I supposed to do then?” she demanded, her voice breaking. “Am I supposed to just… fight everyone who hates me? Prove myself to people who have already made up their minds?”
Quirrell leaned back, his gaze never leaving hers. “N-not everyone, Miss Granger,” he said quietly, almost gently. “Just enough. Enough to make them fear you, to make them think twice before crossing you. It is not about proving yourself to them—it is about ensuring they know you are not to be trifled with.”
Hermione stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone floor. “I’m done with this conversation, Professor,” she said coldly, though her voice was shaking. “I’m leaving. And when I’m gone, I’ll be free of all this… this madness.”
Quirrell’s lips curved into a faint, mirthless smile. “Run, then,” he said, his voice a chilling whisper. “But know th-that you are leaving b-be-behind more than just a—a school. You are abandoning a f-fight th-that is not yours alone. Someone w-will t-take your p-p-place, and they may not be as… f-fortunate as you have b-been.”
A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine at his words, the weight of them lingering in the cold, dimly lit classroom. She wanted to argue, to throw his words back in his face, but she couldn’t find the strength. Instead, she turned on her heel and fled the room, her footsteps echoing down the empty corridors.
As she ran, a single thought kept replaying in her mind, haunting her like a spectre: What if he’s right? What if leaving isn’t the escape I think it is?
But she pushed it down, buried it deep, and focused on the only thing that mattered now—getting away from this place, from the fear, from the hatred.
From the darkness that was beginning to feel all too familiar.
The next few days passed in a haze of anger and resentment for Hermione. She still carried the Slytherin girls’ bags for them, still gave them her notes to study off of, still acted as their lab rat whenever one of them wished to practise a jinx or hex. The only thing that had changed was that they now almost constantly mocked Hermione for almost dying at the troll’s hands—in the common room, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling Slytherins, Malfoy had even done a scarily accurate rendition of her fear when he’d seen the troll; she wouldn’t know whether the twitches and gasps as the “troll”, played by Crabbe, playfully struck Malfoy’s prone body over and over again were accurate,
All the while, Professor Quirrell's words replayed in her mind like a broken record, each repetition fanning the flames of her growing hatred for the Slytherins. She had always believed in rules, in doing what was right, but what had that ever gotten her? They had tried to break her—no, they had tried to kill her, and the more she thought about it, the more she seethed.
In Astronomy class, she barely heard a word of Professor Sinistra’s lecture. The night sky above her was a blur of stars as her mind spun with rage. They wanted to crush her spirit, to turn her into their obedient servant. But they had gone too far, and now, the scales had tipped. They had to pay for what they had done—for what they had almost succeeded in doing.
A week ago, Hermione would have scoffed at Quirrell’s advice, would have recoiled at the idea of using power to fight power, but now… now she understood. Morals were a luxury she could no longer afford. They didn’t care about right or wrong, about fairness or justice. All they cared about was control, and for too long, she had let them control her.
No more.
The idea of transferring had once been her escape plan, a way out of this nightmare. But now, the thought tasted bitter in her mouth. Leaving would mean they won. It would mean they had succeeded in driving her away. And Hermione Granger was no coward. She was done running. If they wanted a fight, she would give them one.
A dark resolve settled in her heart, cold and unyielding. She imagined Malfoy’s smug face twisted in fear, imagined Pansy Parkinson crying as she was forced to carry her bags for once. She envisioned herself standing over them, wand in hand, commanding the respect she had always deserved but had been denied. The thought sent a thrill through her—a heady rush of power that she had never felt before.
And so, it was with this fire burning inside her that she walked the halls of Hogwarts, her eyes no longer downcast but blazing with newfound determination. The Slytherins had tried to destroy her, but they had only succeeded in forging something new, something sharper and stronger.
The final straw came during the next afternoon in the Great Hall. She was sitting alone at the far end of the Slytherin table, trying to ignore the pointed stares and mocking whispers. As she reached for her goblet to take a swig of the pumpkin juice, she heard a familiar drawl from behind her.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our resident troll bait,” Malfoy sneered, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. “Tell me, Granger, how did it feel to get almost killed by a troll? Did it knock some sense into that big Mudblood head of yours? Or did you just lose some of your smarts instead?”
Laughter erupted from the nearby Slytherins, their jeers cutting into her like a thousand tiny knives. Hermione froze, her hand trembling around her goblet. She felt something inside her snap, like a taut string breaking under too much pressure.
Slowly, she stood up, turning to face Malfoy. There was no fear in her eyes, only a cold, burning fury that made him falter for just a second.
“What did you say?” she asked quietly, her voice deadly calm.
Malfoy’s smirk wavered, but only for a moment. “You heard me, Mudblood,” he spat, the insult rolling off his tongue with practised ease.
Hermione’s vision went red. Without thinking, she drew her wand and pointed it straight at Malfoy’s chest. “Flipendo!” she shouted, her voice echoing across the hall.
The spell was stronger than it should have been. Malfoy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward, slamming into the edge of the Slytherin table with a sickening crack. Gasps filled the Great Hall, students from all Houses turning to watch in shock as Draco Malfoy lay crumpled on the floor.
Hermione didn’t wait for him to get up. She pounced on him, her fists sinking themselves into his stomach, his nose, his eyes—everywhere, a flurry of pure fury.
All eyes were on Hermione now, but she didn’t care. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart pounding like a drum. The world around her seemed to fall away, leaving only her and Malfoy writhing, bleeding, mewling form.
Hermione took a step forth, raising her arm once more, before-
“Relashio!”
The force of the Revulsion Jinx blasted her backward onto the rough stone floor, and the suddenness of it left her breathless, her rage momentarily shocked out of her.
She rose quickly, turning sharply to see who had cast the spell, only to find herself staring into the stern, unyielding eyes of Professor Snape. His black robes billowed as he stepped forward, his expression a mask of icy disdain. The Great Hall was deathly silent now, every eye glued to the scene unfolding before them.
“What precisely do you think you are doing, Miss Granger?” Snape’s voice was dangerously soft, the kind of softness that promised retribution.
Hermione’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her heart pounding. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. The red-hot rage that had fueled her seconds ago was rapidly cooling into a sickening knot of dread.
“I—I was—" she stammered, looking around at the shocked faces of her classmates. The weight of what she had just done hit her all at once. As the adrenaline began to fade, a terrible realisation set in. She had crossed a line, one that she could never uncross. The power had been intoxicating, but now, staring at the fear and shock in the eyes of those around her, she felt a pang of something that felt uncomfortably like regret.
But it was too late. The path had been chosen, and there was no turning back now.
Snape’s eyes flicked to Malfoy, still crumpled on the ground, then to Hermione. His lip curled in disgust. “Attacking your fellow students? In the Great Hall, no less?”
“B-but they—” Hermione tried to defend herself, but her voice faltered. What could she say? That they had pushed her to her breaking point? That she had simply snapped under the weight of their cruelty?
Snape silenced her with a glare so fierce that it seemed to drain all the fight out of her. “Enough,” he said coldly. “A week of detention for this disgraceful display.”
Hermione blinked; a week was rather short, respective to what she had just done
The Slytherins gasped, the outrage clear on their faces, but Snape didn’t seem to care. His eyes were fixed on Hermione, his wand still drawn.
“And,” he added, his voice dropping even lower, dangerously calm. “I daresay the Headmaster will want to speak about this little outburst.” His black eyes flickered to the Head Table; at the golden, throne-like chair in the centre sat Albus Dumbledore, donning a look of great displeasure upon his wrinkled features.
As Snape turned his back on her, Hermione’s legs felt like jelly, her bravado crumbling into ashes. She barely heard the whispers that erupted around her as she slowly walked to retrieve her wand, her hand trembling as she picked it up from the floor.